


Home

by EpsilonWrites



Series: Overanalysis [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Hurt/Comfort, McCree has two moms and he's pan fight me, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Female Character, Violence, background Reaper76 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EpsilonWrites/pseuds/EpsilonWrites
Summary: They say home is where the heart is. Yeah, right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Character analysis of everyone's favorite cowboy!
> 
> If you like what I write, follow me on Tumblr at https://epsilon-writes.tumblr.com/! I do requests :)
> 
> Events in this fic parallel those in the rest of the series.

               Somewhere along the twisted, winding paths of Route 66, a baby boy is born to a mother who loves him. It’s raining outside, the droplets upsetting the puddles already forming on the ground, and the distant sound of thunder interrupts the tranquil soundscape every so often. The mother, Sal, looks out the window only to see a crack of lightning arc across the dark clouds outside. She flinches and holds the sleeping baby closer to her, wondering what she will do once they’re out of the hospital.

               How she will make a home for her son.

               The infant awakens later, a gurgling noise bubbling from his throat. He looks at his mother with large, innocent eyes and she finds her home in him where she thought it had been lost.

               She will make a life for him, even if she gives up her own.

***

               By the time the boy can stand upright, his mother is losing her house. It’s a raggedy old thing to begin with, with wallpaper peeling in corners infested with cobwebs, and a smell that won’t seem to leave no matter what she does.

               But it’s hers. Theirs.

               Her son seems to get on well with what he’s given, and has started talking in coherent sentences by the time Sal starts teaching him to read and write. He can’t go to school when he’s of age- she doesn’t have enough money.

               But he’s hers as much as the house is. And she’ll give him the best life she can.

               The boy turns 9 years old, and the house’s foundation becomes so decrepit that half the place sinks into the ground. Sal wakes up to water dripping through the ceiling a week later. It’s too expensive to pay for the damages, and she fears that the property will cave in on her and her son’s heads. So, she wakes the child up in the middle of the night, packs food, her gun, and her meager savings into a bag, pulls a muted green vest over her blouse, and sets out onto the unforgiving terrain.

               The road is humid, and the pavement becomes like an ever-present shackle as they trudge down it in no particular direction. The boy sometimes asks why he cannot fly. His mother is lost for words, because if she could she would give her son the ability to fly in a heartbeat, as well as everything he’s never had.

               Carrying him is an ordeal, as the soles of her own feet protest with every heavy footfall that connects with the road. At points the heat becomes so unbearable that Sal swears she can see parts of the pavement melting and evaporating to join the rippling air around them. In these times, she hides in empty rooms and relies on others’ hospitalities to claim respite from nature’s foul attitude.

               The boy falls sick of heatstroke when he is ten, and she begs at every door at a run-down motel for a place to save her son. A friendly old woman eventually accepts, beckoning them into her abode and fetching a bowl of cold water and a washcloth. She hands Sal a water bottle and she presses it to her son’s lips and watches as the liquid slowly empties into his system.

               He lies unconscious, sequestered away in a cocoon of cold sheets with the wet washcloth draped over his forehead, while Sal strikes up a tentative conversation with this unfamiliar woman.

               “So, despite your struggles, you enjoy parenthood?” The elderly lady leans back in her chair.

               “I do, I wouldn’t trade my little boy for the world,” Sal responds. She’s cautious, and years of experience has taught her to keep her gun in close quarters.

               “What do you call him?”

               She raises an eyebrow, wondering if she should reveal the child’s true name to this woman, however hospitable she might appear. Sal eventually decides against it, stating that the boy’s name is Eugene.

               “What a nice name for a young boy,” the woman comments, “it is a shame, though.”

               Sal’s fingers tighten around the grip of the concealed revolver. “What is?”

               “I always wanted a son of my own. He’ll have to do, I suppose.”

               The knife nearly slices a piece of Sal’s ear as she dodges the throw, and the blade embeds itself in the wall opposite the old woman. The hag lets out a shriek of rage and the revolver flies out from its concealed holster. Sal levels the muzzle at the woman’s head and fires, once, twice, three times.

               A bullet in each eye, and one right through the throat. Pinpoint accuracy.

               Blood splatters across the wall behind the attacker, painting the surfaces red. Sal re-holsters the gun and rushes to her son’s side, refusing to move even an inch until morning.

               The child wakes with the sun, reaching out to his mother. She cradles his head in her arms and kisses his forehead. They’ll look for them if they ever find the old woman dead in her own home. Sal hopes she has no family or regular contacts to give them a head start before the smell of rot becomes so pungent as to alert neighborly concern.

               She shields her son’s eyes from the body as they escape the walls imprisoning them by pressing his head to her chest.

               “Don’t look. It’s alright, don’t look. We’re going to get out of here.”

               The boy does not question his mother’s concealment of the truth, even though his studies have shown that he’s quite curious and adept. He trusts the only friendly face he’s known since the day he was born, and Sal intends to keep it that way.

               She starts losing her eyesight when her son is eleven. From the day she wakes up and finds that she can’t see the road signs from the same distance she used to, she starts to joke that her son has stolen her eyes. He finds it funny at first, as if he could steal the color from those vibrant irises.

               She hands the gun to the boy when he turns twelve. Her eyes shift awkwardly now, as if trying to get the most accurate picture of him. He holds the revolver in his hand, turning it over and over, feeling the contours of the barrel and juggling the bullets in his hand.

               His mother has expected him to handle it like a toy, so the reverence with which he holds her prized possession is gratifying, if not something more.

               He asks if he can name the gun, and Sal chuckles and tells him that it already has a name.

               Peacekeeper.

               The days, the months, the years pass on, and the boy starts to believe that he is the thief of Sal’s sight. His mother needs help to find her way most times, and he tries his hardest to reassure himself that he hasn’t truly taken part of his mother away. She stares blankly into the distance sometimes, laughing to herself at some joke he doesn’t understand. In her inability to see, she can still find his hair to ruffle and give him sage advice as only she herself can. She can still see more than him, in all its irony.

               Sal dies blind on the side of Route 66 when her son is fourteen. He has stolen her deadeyes.

***

               The winter is brutal on the adolescent. Without the guiding arm of his mother, he is left with minimal survival skills and no idea where he is. He stumbles through diners, asking for directions to the nearest place to stay until he’s out of money and starving.

               His salvation, or perhaps damnation, comes in the form of a woman at the bar of one particular joint slipping him a note as soon as she sees the revolver strapped to his hip.

               _Here, sundown. Don’t be late if you want into Deadlock._

               He’s heard of these people. Notorious gang personnel that stop at nothing to take what they want, be it weapons or hostages. His rationality should save him from making this blind decision, but he’s in need of food and desperate for a roof over his head.

               He wants his home again.

               He steps into the run-down diner as soon as the sun’s fire licks at the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant pinks and oranges. There are several customers milling about, and their heads all turn as soon as the bell to the side of the door rings jovially. The eyes upon the youth make him nervous, as if the barely-concealed weapons at their sides will suddenly be in their owners’ hands pointed at him.

               “Ain’t got nowhere else to go, kid?” the same woman from before pushes herself from the counter and stalks towards him. She fixes him with a calculating glare, as if expecting him to answer with no hesitation.

               “I don’t.”

               “Know how to use that there gun?”

               “I do,” the boy replies, lying through gritted teeth. He’s never touched the trigger before, too afraid of sullying his mother’s legacy. It’s all he has left of her.

               “You some goody-two-shoes?” He never was. A life like the one he’s had does nothing to help morality.

               “I’m not.”

               “Then you’ll fit right in, stranger. What’s your name?” He gulps, contemplating letting go of the one his mother gave him to retain his own anonymity. The love he has for her is outmatched by nothing, and he decides that as long as her gun remains pristine and reserved only for him, he has no qualms releasing her other earthly ties.

               “The name’s McCree.” The woman regards him curiously, as if she knows something he doesn’t. He clarifies after clearing his throat. “I’m Jesse McCree.”

               “Right then. I’m Sterling, the big one over there is Rhys,” someone that looks to be in their early twenties looks up and waves, “that old man’s Benson, and this here’s my sister, Trish. You be nice to us, and we’ll be nice to you, y’hear?” the other girl, Trish, sidles up to Sterling and slings an arm around her. They look nearly identical, curls falling in the same way on each head.

               Jesse leans back on the counter and puts on his best smile. “Loud n’ clear, miss.”

               “Good,” Rhys grunts, “Boss’ll want to meet ya, but Benson takes over mentorin’ the new blood. Make sure ya don’t let ‘im down.”

               “I’ll do my damndest.”

               Sterling makes her way to the door and beckons him towards her. A van with tinted windows that Jesse hadn’t noticed on his way in sits innocently outside, almost anachronistically, given the tires on the thing.

               He cautiously approaches the vehicle and a window slowly opens with a horrible creaking noise. It’s an old decrepit machine, and Jesse wonders how much, or how little, the owner must have paid to get this car in their possession. A man wearing dark sunglasses and an interesting-looking getup that looks like it’s been pulled straight out of the Old West leans out of the window and looks him up and down.

               “I’ll make this short,” he growls, “you do what I tell you, and you don’t ask any questions. All your revenue goes to me and you get a roof over your head and a few partners in crime. Understood?”

               McCree regards the man, and notes that he’s unlike anyone he’s met in the diner. He looks well-off, clean-shaven save for a perfectly manicured mustache.

               He has a home. The others seem like they all came here searching for one.

               Nonetheless, he knows this will net him somewhere to stay and possibly something to feed himself with, so he simply nods.

               “That’s what I like to hear, kid.” Perfect obedience. That’s what he _really_ likes to hear.

               The window rolls up and the door swings open with another sound reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard.

               “Now, you’ll learn to remember the name Hunter, and you’ll follow my every order, starting with this poor soul right here.” The adjacent door is pulled open to reveal a trembling body. Jesse can’t discern the captive’s gender, as they’re mostly covered in a dirty cloth.

               “Why don’t you show us yer gunnin’ skills by puttin’ an end to this fucker’s misery? A little lesson for idiots out there: fuck with us and end up dead.” He can’t do it. He can’t. _He can’t. He must_.

               He removes the revolver from its holster and holds it with shaking hands, the safety clicking back as if in slow motion. His index finger caresses the trigger before he closes his eyes and shoots. He opens them again. The prisoner lies dead, a bullet in their eye socket.

               Pinpoint accuracy.

               Hunter whistles, obviously impressed. “Damn, kid. That’s one hell of an eye you got there.”

               Jesse briefly imagines the scenario in which he rips out this man’s heart while letting him know very forcefully that those aren’t his eyes. Images of his mother’s body, left abandoned in the best grave he could dig with wilted flowers he had gathered with tears in his eyes, flash before him. He pushes them away with a grunt and salutes his new superior.

               “I like you already. Don’t cause trouble.” Hunter hops back into the driver’s seat after opening the door once more, slamming it and revving up the vehicle. He drives away with a plume of smoke that makes Jesse cough.

               Sterling sidles up to him and claps him on the back. “Diner’s where we meet up to eat, they’ll know you’re with us. HQ is down the road. Don’t drink the coffee, don’t sit in the third seat from the far wall. Go see Benson when yer ready.”

               Jesse is jolted out of his reverie as the girl saunters off in the other direction. He turns and faces the diner, stepping back inside. The old man is waiting for him, and crooks a finger at him as he slides into the nearest booth.

               “So,” Benson begins, his voice gravelly with age, “what god did you impress to shoot like that when y’ain’t never shot a gun before?”

               Jesse is taken aback by the man’s immediate knowledge of his lack of experience with firearms. He sputters for a moment before his new mentor lets out a grating laugh.

               “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna snitch. Look like ya need Deadlock as much as it could use you up.”

               McCree sighs in relief. “Thank ya kindly. My gun was my mom’s, got her aim too I guess.”

               Benson suddenly reaches across the table and tugs on a lock of his matted brown hair. Hard.

               “Ow!” Jesse exclaims, putting a hand to his head as soon as the old man’s deceptively frail hand retreats. “What the hell, old timer?!”

               “Wrong, kid,” he explains, “that ain’t yer gun.” He gains a look of total confusion from his new protégée before chuckling to himself and continuing. “You do the best you can to earn it, you learn that thing inside and out, you use it to save yer own life, and then that gun’ll belong to Jesse McCree.”

               Jesse removes the revolver once more, placing it on the table.

               “Show me.”

               Benson smirks and nods in approval, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a screwdriver. “Take it apart.”

               “Excuse me?”

               “You heard me, McCree. Take the gun apart and show me what each part does.”

               Apparently there aren’t enough surprises for one day. Jesse stares down at Peacekeeper, realizing for the first time that the gun truly still belongs to his mother. Yet another thing of hers that he has claimed.

               “I don’t know how.” It’s a hard admittance but he powers through it. Sal might not be proud of what he’s doing, but he’ll honor her legacy through other means.

               “That’s what I thought.” Although Benson’s words sting, they lack any trace of malice or ill intent. Perhaps Jesse is wrong to assume that this man has it out for him. “Engage the safety and remove the cylinder. Get rid of those bullets first.”

               Jesse does what he’s told, letting the rounds and their casings fall onto the table, metal clinking and jingling against the peeling finish of the table. Benson grunts and moves on.

               An eternity of descriptions and hair-pulling later, Peacekeeper sits completely dismantled on the surface between the two men. Benson looks mildly pleased, which is a far cry from his hitherto unchanging expression of perpetual discontent.

               “Nice work, McCree. Now put it back together.” Jesse nods, obeying almost immediately. Benson talks him through the steps when he gets stuck, and he’s glad to see his mother’s gun in its natural state once again. His mentor speaks once more.

               “Take it apart again.” McCree’s head shoots up in affront at the prospect of completing the arduous task another time, and nearly groans out loud when all he’s given is a hard stare from his teacher.

               “Why?” he asks, his voice ratcheting up a few octaves in his anguish.

               “Because I said you’re gonna learn this gun inside and out, did I not? Because I don’t care how long I have to tell ‘em to keep this place open, you’re gonna take that thing apart and put it back together as many times as it takes fer you to know every single ridge and scratch on it. Are we clear?!” Benson is standing by the time he’s finished with his spiel, and a glob of spittle hits Jesse in the face.

               He dejectedly wipes it off and quietly mutters, “yessir.”

               His mentor growls and sits himself back down. “Now,” he growls, “take it apart again.”

               Jesse does. The sun is climbing the rungs of the sky’s ladder by the time he falls asleep in the booth, the sound of Benson shuffling around behind the counter lulling him into slumber.

***

               Jesse truly has taken after his mother, as each shot from Peacekeeper afterwards is released with finesse and precision, and Benson even teaches him how to rapid fire using the hammer of the gun. He develops a bit of an ego, watching his friends in Deadlock attempt to shoot as well as him. Sterling is particularly jealous, and complains on multiple occasions that she was the one who brought Jesse into Deadlock, only to have him thank her by outmatching her.

               Trish, by comparison, is much more warm and friendly. She hangs out by the makeshift target range when Jesse deigns to venture there, asking him all sorts of questions about his former life. Where he came from.

               Where his home used to be.

               McCree replies briefly to these particular questions, as the thought of what his mother would think of him now disgusts him. She would, by no means, be proud of him.

               On one occasion, his friend asks him a question he cannot answer to.

               “You talk ‘bout yer ma all the time, what about yer pa?” Jesse stops shooting to think. He remembers the times that he would ask the same thing, staring up at his mother innocently, not registering the sadness written across her face.

               He was lucky to get an answer out of the older woman at all – “Yer other ma had to leave when I started showin’. Last I heard, she headed North.”

               Jesse relays this information to Trish, who stops leaning on a post nearby his training dummy to approach and give him a short hug for comfort. He half-heartedly returns the embrace, more focused on containing himself long enough for her to leave or for him to find somewhere to escape.

               Instead, the girl merely sidles up to him and begins to talk, a note of remorse in her voice now.

               “Sterling n’ I grew up not too far from here. Parents threw me out when I told ‘em I wasn’t a boy. Told me it was ‘unnatural’, callin’ me ungrateful an’ other nasty words. Sterling, bless her little heart, didn’t wanna watch me go. Hung onto me, cryin’ and screamin’ at ma n’ pa to let me stay. Bastards threw her out too.”

               Jesse turns to watch his friend confess her past to him, regarding the tears carving uneven paths down her cheeks and absentmindedly raising his right hand to pat her back. Trish sniffles and continues.

               “I was 10. Out on the road with my sister until we walked into that diner starving n’ tired, just like you. Benson fitted us with weapons n’ taught us to carry ourselves n’ that was it. No drugs or doctors fer people like me. Just grow yer hair out and hope for the best, I s’pose. Hunter’s an ass, but he does give ya nice clothes.”

               Trish is staring into the distance by the time she takes another breath, and her head slowly lowers into her arms as her body is wracked with quiet sobs. Jesse cannot speak to save his life, merely opting to drape himself over her frame and run his hands soothingly over her shoulders. He waits until his friend’s back stops rising and falling erratically before he straightens himself up.

               Trish turns to him, eyes wide and watery. McCree holsters his revolver and places both hands on her smooth shoulders.

               “Well,” he says quietly, “I may not’ve been a lot of places or met a lot of people, but yer the woman-est woman I ever seen, Trish.” Vibrant brown eyes widen impossibly further, and all of a sudden Trish is sobbing again, burying her face in his chest. They stand there until the heat of the sun makes their skin feel like there’s a roiling tempest beneath it and the tops of their heads are hot to the touch.

               Jesse lies awake late into the night, feeling home for the first time.

***

               Jesse McCree is a name to be feared. Tales of the Deadlock Gang’s young prodigy spread across their territory, whispers of insanely accurate aim and quick reflexes passing from ear to ear.

               The boy himself, however, is just happy to have found a place he can call home, even if he’s not at peace with what he’s done.

               Benson buys him a cowboy hat for his 17th birthday, with Sterling and Trish pooling together the meager spending money they’ve gathered into a belt buckle with the acronym ‘BAMF’ on it. It’s supposed to be a joke; Jesse nearly cries while threading it through the loops on his pants.

               He looks around the diner at the large family he never thought he’d have, taking solace in the fact that if his mother were to see him now, she would at least take solace in the fact that he’s happy. Benson isn’t as much of a hard-ass as he was in the beginning, and has asserted himself as a makeshift father figure in Jesse’s life, showing him guidance he’s never had before.

               6 months pass before it happens. Jesse is trading stories with Rhys when a frantic message from Hunter ordering all personnel to the warehouse echoes into their dated communicators. From what they can make out, someone has ‘wandered’ into their base, trapping them in their own warehouse in the midst of a group of attackers. He exchanges one look with Rhys before they’re barreling down the road as fast as their legs can carry them.

               Headquarters is already in chaos, mysterious figures in neutral clothing ruthlessly assaulting the gang members with no mercy. They use different weapons and work as a unit, seemingly responding to one man’s commands.

               He’s tall, arms wielding twin shotguns like it’s what he’s been born to do. Jesse stares in awe at the absolute destruction of his home until Rhys’ large hand collides with the back of his head, nearly knocking his hat off in the process.

               “The hell you waitin’ for, McCree? Move it!” with that they’re off, their large frame disappearing into the fray. Jesse quickly draws Peacekeeper, removing the safety with a satisfying click that resonates above the commotion. He takes aim at someone attacking one of the younger Deadlock members, preparing to show these fuckers how well Jesse McCree can really shoot. He pulls the trigger.

               And he misses.

               He fires again, and he misses. And then he misses again. A wave of shock mixed with terror stabs through Jesse’s body.

               These are trained professionals. The prey Deadlock has feasted on all these years have been mere cannon fodder compared to these people. Someone nearly makes a grab for him, their face manic and aggressive, but they’re felled before they can even lay a hand on him. The bullet in the back of their head came from somewhere across the HQ, and Jesse looks up in time to see Benson motion for him to run for it.

               He’s about to shake his head and stay to fight when he sees his mentor fall to a shotgun blast.

               A rage-induced scream tears its way from Jesse’s throat, and he starts firing, not caring who he hits. The infiltrators’ leader seems to look his way for a short moment before rejoining the fight, taking down whoever he pleases with little resistance as if he’s some sort of killing machine.

               It’s not long before everyone has either escaped or died. Jesse stands by Benson’s fallen body, unnoticed by the specialists until their leader turns and notices. He stands conflicted, revolver pointed at the man’s head, without any sign of Trish, Sterling, or even Rhys among the fallen. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

               The memory of Hunter and a few other Deadlock memories fleeing into the desert flashes before his eyes as he contemplates pulling the trigger. So he was a coward after all, using those less well-off like some sort of murderous pimp. Not surprising.

               He registers that his opponent, whoever he might be, has not moved, standing in front of a slab of metal like a statue.

               So he shoots.

               The other man’s movements are quick as lightning, his head tilting to the side just slightly enough for the bullet to not even graze the side of his head. It buries itself into the wall behind him with a _thunk_. Jesse’s eyes widen.

               This man isn’t even human.

               Jesse pulls the trigger once more, only to be greeted by the foreboding clicking noise of being out of bullets. The other man raises his eyebrow and folds his arms. He advances, signaling for his team to standby. He tells Jesse to put his weapon down. That they won’t kill him if he obeys. He’s been told lies before.

               Might as well die with his home.

               He attacks with a shout, frantically tackling the man and punching him for all he’s worth. Someone shouts the man’s name, “Commander Reyes,” and he merely responds that they should hold their fire. Jesse punches harder, determined to show this “Reyes” fellow what a mistake he just made. The most unnerving thing is the apparent lack of reaction he garners. He’s greeted only by a look of mild annoyance, and the arm that somehow gets under him is stronger than any of Benson’s hair-pulls.

               He’s thrown against the wall, crashing into it with such force that it knocks the wind out of him, but he rises again. It’s all he can do at this point. He throws himself at Reyes once more, and is pressed to the ground almost immediately. The combat training this man has had is insane- or perhaps it’s that Jesse is inexperienced. He feels handcuffs being fastened around his wrists and struggles even harder before Reyes lifts him up like he weighs nothing and slings him over his shoulder.

               “Lemme go, fucker! I’ll kill ya, you’ll regret ever comin’ here, don’t fuck with Deadlock, lemme _go!_ ” Reyes ignores him, merely stepping over various bodies to the agent that Benson had felled earlier to protect him.

               The Commander asks if this was what Jesse wanted. Asks if he wanted her to never see her family again. Jesse regards the woman’s face, the youth in her vacant eyes, the contours of her lifeless body, and falls silent.

               Benson died to the hand of a man avenging the people he cared about because of Jesse’s own ego. And Hunter didn’t bat an eye.

               Reyes orders the cleanup to be finished and Jesse is taken to the hovercraft that lifts off and carries him towards his fate. If he’s lucky, he’ll be in a nice cozy prison cell for the rest of his life. If not, well… this Commander seems to have quite a vindictive streak. After all, he has taken Peacekeeper away, and Jesse almost feels naked without it.

               They land at a place that confuses the hell out of the young Southerner. It’s a pristine-looking base, with a strikingly familiar logo plastered on the walls and flags billowing in the warm breeze. This is an Overwatch base, but the uniforms his captors wear are unlike anything he’s seen on the news. It’s as if they don’t even exist within the organization.

               Reyes leads him through the halls, taking winding path after winding path, the buzzing commotion of the common areas growing quieter and quieter until they reach a more hidden portion of the base, at which point the Commander unlocks a door by punching in a complex-looking code.

               The atmosphere here is a stark contrast to the one he’s only just been introduced to. It’s quieter, more intimate, and the agents that had attacked Deadlock immediately split up without being told. There’s family here, a silent bond between each individual that Jesse had only begun to form with Trish and Sterling.

               He’s led down a few more halls before they reach one door of many identical-looking ones. Reyes opens one and he’s ushered into what looks like an interrogation room. He’s pushed into a chair after his handcuffs are unlocked. The Commander sits himself down and asks his name, and when Jesse resists he offers to put his name on a tombstone.

               In a way, the prickly nature of this man reminds him of Benson, and a wave of regret assaults him, forcing him to mutter his title. He does not mention the bounty on his head, as he suspects Reyes already knows.

               A whole lot of talking and a few precursory instructions complete with a picture of a blonde guy and a regal-looking woman later, Jesse is part of Overwatch’s secretive twin organization, Blackwatch. Gabriel, his new Commander, is surprisingly soft-spoken at times, and he wonders if the only time that odd inhuman side appears is indeed on the battlefield.

               He cannot forget Benson’s death. But he can begin to forgive. Perhaps in due time he will forgive himself for his own crimes as well.

***

               Gabriel, for all his faults and sarcastic exterior, seems to harbor a deep-seated love for each of his agents, treating them with respect and near admiration. There’s also the undertone of resentment for the UN and Overwatch in general as they had, as Jesse found out, screwed him over royally in the early days of the organization.

               Then there’s Jack.

               There’s some sort of perverse satisfaction he finds in the act of confusing the Strike Commander. He walks through the Blackwatch Headquarters sometimes, obviously out of his element and looking for Gabriel like a lost puppy.

               Not to mention the noises coming from Gabriel’s office or quarters during the night.

               So, the “Commander Cornfucker” nickname becomes Jack’s signature calling card, and somehow Blackwatch manages to keep it from Gabriel at all costs. The look on Jack’s face is priceless, and McCree thinks it’s the happiest he’s ever felt, which would be concerning if he weren’t so preoccupied with Morrison’s dumbfound expression.

               He holds no malice for the Overwatch Commander, and he seems to be a decent guy, all while providing many opportunities for making fun of Gabriel by proxy. It’s not that anyone disapproves, just that Reyes scrunches his nose up whenever someone asks him about his sex life with Blondie, and they’ve yet to snap a picture of him doing it.

               Jesse’s nearing his 18th birthday when he lines up with a few other Overwatch members and a kind-looking medical student visiting the base to take a picture as if he’s already been welcomed into the family. As if he’s home again.

               Perhaps his suspicions are right. Reyes trains him in all sorts of combat after he returns Peacekeeper, teaching him to improve his aim and predict enemy movements. He’s equipped with non-lethal grenades that allow him to stun those who get too close, and after missions he’s well-fed and given a stable roof over his head.

               It feels like home, and he has more things to call his own than ever before.

               His mother would be proud, he thinks. Even if his job is possibly even dirtier than Deadlock’s. He sees more blood splattered on the ground than bullets most of the time, and the screams of people the interrogators torture echo in his brain as he converses with his fellow agents. They’re friendly in casual environments, as if all their kindness is poured into social interaction so they have no more room for it on the field.

               All in all, it’s still better than a prison cell. Jesse tells himself it’s nothing more than that.

               The first time Ana talks to him, it’s after he and the rest of the Blackwatch have come back from a failed mission and he’s sitting by himself staring wistfully out the window. It’s nobody’s fault, but he can’t help but blame himself.

               So the sniper sits herself down next to him and pats him on the back.

               “So, what happened out there?”

               He turns to her, confused as to why she would choose to talk to him of all people, given her relationship with the rest of the members of Overwatch.

               “Mission went sour, nobody was shootin’ well. Lost Agent Cortez along the way. What’s it to ya, ma’am?” He keeps his voice as neutral as possible, tacking on the formality so as to show his respect for this elite officer.

               Ana smiles mysteriously. “So why are you sitting here all alone?”

               He ponders the question. “S’pose I had a part in the failure, Captain.”

               She ruffles his hair, and he’s immediately 9 years old, looking up at his mother, her eyes failing but still managing to run her hand through his tangled locks. He realizes he’s been staring at Ana, who doesn’t notice by some blessing, and barely keeps himself from tearing up.

               “Everyone dies,” she says, “I started to celebrate the dead for who they were, not mourning their absence, when I joined the military. People leave but they are never truly gone. Otherwise, how would we remember them?” Amari stands with those words, patting Jesse’s head once more and departing, her coat flowing out behind her.

               McCree stays still for a moment before scrambling to his feet, running after her. She turns at the sound of his heavy footsteps, the curiosity evident in her dark eyes.

               “Please teach me how to shoot, ma’am!” He implores her. No offense to Reyes, but he doesn’t exactly specialize in aiming from a long range. He doesn’t have to spend time on the field with the man to know that, especially after he’s seen Gabriel try to throw a piece of trash away from a distance.

               The Captain looks almost pleased with his request, closing her eyes and grinning. She places a hand on his shoulder, the strength emanating from her fingers.

               “Two days from now, 1400. Don’t be late, McCree.”

               “Wouldn’t dream of it, Cap.”

***

               McCree readies his gun, twirling it around to show off as Ana programs a training simulation for him. A few bots appear, slowly moving from side to side like awkward puppets.

               “Uh, this ain’t really a challenge, ma’am,” Jesse says, slightly offended that Ana would underestimate him like this.

               “On the contrary, I think you’ll find that what I have in mind is quite challenging,” she replies, that smile letting him know that she’s two steps ahead of him. McCree lets out a thin breath through his nose, turning back around and taking aim. His shot is an easy lineup, and he’s about to pull the trigger when Ana puts a hand on his wrist and gently lowers it.

               He turns to her in confusion, only to be greeted by a very serious expression.

               “Tell me you don’t call that shooting.” He blinks, unable to form words. “You’re just pulling the trigger like those bullets mean nothing, aren’t you? Wrong. Every bullet is a single life. A collection of memories and emotions. Do not cast them aside like cheap metal.”

               Jesse stands dumbfounded. Either this woman is completely off her rocker or there’s some hidden meaning to what she’s told him that he can’t see at this point.

               As he watches her leave, he decides to go with the latter.

               Handling Peacekeeper is different on the battlefield after Ana imparts him with her wisdom. Even though he’s part of an organization that probably has access to unlimited bullets and flashbangs and everything of the sort, he sees each round as if it’s made of diamond, mourning the loss of its soul as it departs the chamber.

               His shots barely ever miss their marks.

               He stands in the training area one night, managing to shoot 6 targets in rapid succession as if his mind has seen all angles of his environment. He blows the smoke off the muzzle before he hears clapping behind him. It’s Amari, looking awfully pleased.

               “That, Jesse, is how I shoot.”

***

               They’re on a mission in Japan to gain information and possibly take out the infamous Shimada Clan when Gabriel spots a decrepit-looking body lying on the ground outside the castle shrine. He’s barely breathing and several of his limbs are missing, and a lot of him looks charred, almost if he’s been burnt.

               There’s no fire in sight.

               It’s odd that the entire castle is deserted, not even a skeleton crew taking care of it. The mission, therefore, is a wash, but they take the boy back with them and McCree watches as he’s handed over into the custody of Doctor Ziegler. She’s still somewhat green, and she looks terrified at the sight of the mangled figure.

               She promises to do her best. Jesse prays that it will be enough.

               It turns out the man’s name is Genji, which lets everyone present know that they’ve just taken a Shimada heir into their custody. They ask him questions, grill him like he’s some sort of machine, as to where his brother is, what happened to him. Jesse just wants to scream at them, tell them to leave him alone.

               He’s just lost his home. McCree knows what that feels like all too well.

               According to Genji, whom Angela has graciously outfitted with an artificial body to make up for his lost functions, the Shimada clan ordered his brother to kill him for his refusal to follow the clan’s doctrine. Overwatch officials file into the room shortly after they get the information like they’re looking at some new science project.

               They ask if he can help destroy the Shimada clan. He looks up with malice in his eyes and says yes.

               At first, Jesse blames Morrison for Genji’s forced induction into Blackwatch. He doesn’t deserve to be put to work like some kind of mule. He’s a person with free will, damn it all. Then he hears Jack ranting one night to Gabriel about how nothing he says seems to stick with the UN, that he can’t get a word in when they have their minds set.

               He feels sorry for Jack, in a way. A job he didn’t know he would get has tied his hands together and there’s nothing he can do about it.

               Genji, for his part, is an angry kid. Not angry in a normal way, either. His entire being is made up of being lost in what he is, full of hate for his clan and possibly Overwatch itself. McCree sometimes talks to him, when he’s in a marginally better mood. He has interesting things to say, and Jesse wishes he could do something to make the Shimada feel more at home.

               Not like Blackwatch allows for a comfortable lifestyle.

               Genji is diagnosed with body dysmorphia, and Jesse doesn’t care about the intricacies as long as there’s a treatment for the way he stares at himself in the mirror and panics whenever someone sees or touches him during his bad days.

               He doesn’t get any help. Not from the doctors anyway. Not while they can still manipulate his anger. Jesse curses them. Not Jack, not Overwatch’s operatives. The people who think that everyone under them are to be used up like a child’s toy, discarded when they’re too broken. People like Hunter infest the higher-ups and he thanks his lucky stars that his home is away from their prying eyes.

***

               Within short time, Jesse becomes one of Gabriel’s most trusted operatives. The Commander sends him to London without a thought because he seems to have such faith in him. It makes McCree proud, to think that someone like him, who came from nothing and tried to beat the shit out of Gabe when they first met, could evolve like this.

               He’s honored, in a way. When he first joined he had thought of Reyes as some sort of untouchable figure. After about two weeks in his company, realizing that the man can joke with the best of them and does not hesitate to accept criticism from his agents, he becomes more of a friend than a boss.

               It’s more than that. Jesse begins to see him like he had originally seen Benson- Gabriel cares for his people in his own way, unlike Hunter. Jesse almost feels like he gravitates towards Gabe, trying to fill the gap that his mothers have left in him. Ana too- her maternal instincts have transferred onto him as well, and he finds that the more time he spends with Fareeha, the more Amari seems to treat him like her child as well.

               McCree knows he’s found a home now.

***

               Gabriel drags his agents out on a mission in the middle of nowhere one day. It’s hot, sweaty, and almost remind Jesse of the deserts where he grew up. They’re busting a drug ring, nothing too serious at first, except their forces are armed and dangerous. They seem to have robbed some big-budget weapon manufacturer, and Jesse and the rest of the team have to dodge sniper bullets as they rain hell on these insurgents.

               It’s smooth enough, as it always is. Blackwatch doesn’t deal in large operations that take a small army to complete. It’s get in, get out, don’t get caught. Jesse feels right at home. Peacekeeper is like an extension of his arm now, and he laments the loss of each bullet with reverence, like Ana has taught him.

               Soon enough, their opponents lie dead or captured, and Jesse sinks into a feeling of security.

               They’re almost cleared out when he sees the red dot on Gabriel’s forehead.

               He lunges without thinking – the thought of Reyes lying dead on the ground like so many others makes him sick to the stomach. His body collides with the Commander’s just as he hears the telltale shot of the sniper rifle. His left arm flies up in the air to shield him and Gabriel.

               He sees a suspicious black spot flying towards him. He closes his eyes.

               The next thing he sees is Gabriel’s panicked face looking down at him, desperately shaking him awake. The man is begging him to stay conscious, going as far as to slap him in the face as his eyelids droop once more. He’s about to tell him to quit it when he catches sight of his arm.

               Rather, what used to be his arm.

               The stump ends at his elbow, and the blood spurting from the wound idly reminds Jesse of the old ketchup bottles he used to have to slam the heel of his hand against back in the diner on Route 66. It’s almost comical, and his mouth quirks up in an odd smile.

               He looks a bit to the left and notices that someone’s disembodied hand is lying palm-up on the road further away. He wants to say that someone should probably go get that, because the owner will probably want it back, before the realization punches him in the gut. It’s his hand.

               Gabriel snatches something from another agent and before he knows it his arm is being tightly bandaged and he screams because _fuck, that hurts_. He’s carried, _rushed_ to the aircraft and the gusts of wind combined with the jostling of his body on Gabe’s shoulder almost makes him vomit. He passes out just as he’s set down in the plane, and he faintly hears his mother’s voice before everything goes black.

***

               Recovery is one of the worst things Jesse has ever had to go through. The feeling of being utterly useless, of not being able to function, pervades his senses and causes him to go numb at times, staring idly at the walls of his room. Gabriel visits nearly every day, and he’s thankful to have such a familiar face.

               It hurts that he doesn’t joke when he stops by. Jesse nearly apologizes for stealing Reyes’ sense of humor. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken something that isn’t his. Gabriel pats him on the back and ruffles his hair when he leaves, as if it’s all he can do for Jesse until he’s up and about.

               McCree doesn’t mind. It’s the sentiment that counts.

               He recovers fairly quickly, at least that’s what he thinks. Ziegler outfits him with an arm made of metal and motors, and he demands that the Deadlock skull is engraved onto it. For old times’ sake, to remember the home he used to have.

               Problems arise when he realizes that he can no longer shoot or write with his dominant hand, the metal not nearly conducive enough for holding a gun, much less a pencil. His handwriting is absolutely atrocious when he tries practicing with his right hand, and he can barely pull the trigger of Peacekeeper.

               It’s like being a child all over again. Relearning skills that have been ripped away from him.

               He breaks down in the training room when he tries to shoot with the metal hand again one day, and ends up on his knees squeezing the thing as hard as he can. He wants to destroy it- to somehow force his arm to grow back as if this was all a bad dream.

               That’s how Reyes finds him. The Commander kneels immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder and Jesse breaks. It’s probably a breach of protocol to hug your Commanding Officer in some stuffy UN Official’s book, but he doesn’t care. Gabriel has stuck with him and he’ll hold on to that. Even if he cries through it along the way.

               When McCree’s sobs diminish down to sniffles, Gabe stands him up and claps both hands on his shoulders.

               “Listen to me right now, Jesse,” he says lowly, “you’re gonna get through this. Remember when you joined up? Scrawny little bastard. And now I swear I have to look up to talk to you. You’re a goddamn fighter, McCree. I’m not about to let you fail.”

               He’s crying all over again, knowing that Reyes is lying about him being taller but it doesn’t matter. He hasn’t lost his home because of his injury. Home accepts, and shelters no matter the odds.

               It takes time to re-learn motor functions with his right hand, but Jesse powers through it. Gabriel helps clean his revolver until he manages to do it himself. It’s lucky that he’s a fast learner, and he begins shooting with the same accuracy as before, and Gabriel allows him to go on missions again.

               He jokes that he’s not shooting with his good hand whenever he’s in the face of the enemy, mostly to hide the pain he feels in his left arm that leaves him reeling with the sharp bursts, or the nightmares in which he sees his disembodied hand laying on the road, after which he shoots up sweating and whimpering in his bed.

               Although it feels as if a part of him has been taken away, and it has if he thinks about it, he persists. For Gabriel’s sake, for Ana’s sake, even for Jack’s. He knows they’re suffering through things as much as he is, and he wants to repay them for giving him a home.

               It all changes when Amelie is lost.

               Reyes carefully hides his panic and lack of sleep, but Jesse knows better. He sees the bags under the man’s eyes, the meticulous carefree posture that he’s crafted through the years. He wishes he could say something, do something to help.

               In time, Overwatch gets her back and things go back into an uneasy peace for two weeks.

               He never really knew Gerard, only came across him during their dealings with Talon. He seemed nice, from what Jesse saw. Loved his wife to the ends of the earth, talked about her all the time. McCree feels a sense of shame when he dies to her hand. Almost as if he should have taken the time to actually talk to the guy at least once outside of work.

               That chance is lost to the flow of time now.

               He has reservations about Ana and Jack going out on a mission. They’re incredible soldiers, of course, but Talon isn’t a diplomatic organization and he’s seen that firsthand. They’ve sunk their claws deep into the inner workings of Overwatch, and occasionally his and Reyes’ teams will be out on a mission only to have it ruined by the terrorist group. It’s infuriating, and he prays for the first time in, well, as long as he can remember, for Jack and Ana’s safety.

               He doesn’t sleep the night before the mission. He’s too anxious, worry coursing through him like the unstoppable tide of a river. Gabriel leaves him in charge of Blackwatch for a while after the sun comes up, finally allowing himself to rest after endless hours of searching and tracking Talon.

               He watches from their headquarters as team members’ vitals are lost, something picking them off like flies. Ana tells Jack to evacuate like the plan dictated. To leave her there, alone. He does. There’s nothing else that can be done.

               The unchanging tone of Amari’s flatline strikes directly into Jesse’s soul. It’s losing his mother all over again. It’s watching Benson’s gray matter explode out of his head. It’s losing his arm. It’s a thousand other things and he falls. Shattered.

               He can’t tell Fareeha. She greets him cheerfully in the halls, and he runs past her, searching desperately for Gabriel. Someone has to tell him, even if he can’t look Ana’s own daughter in her eyes as if he’s the one that pulled the trigger.

               He finds Reyes sleeping face-down on his bed after barging in uninvited. The Commander raises his head sleepily, and McCree feels tears stream down his cheeks as he relates the events previous. It hurts him further to see the devastation in Gabriel’s eyes. And even moreso when he and Jack stop talking to each other altogether.

               He’s called into the Commander’s office several times, mostly to deliver messages to Jack by proxy. Gabriel’s taking it to the extreme in terms of being petty, which really shouldn’t be a surprise.

               Jack ends up cracking eventually, handing him a letter with a pretty-looking flower to give to Gabriel. Jesse’s not interested in breaching his CO’s privacy, mostly because he’s afraid of the retribution he’ll get from the two super soldiers, so he doesn’t read the letter.

               Gabe doesn’t return to Blackwatch HQ at all that night, so McCree figures the note had been sappy enough to appeal to his inner romantic side. Jesse lays awake that night, thinking of Ana and knowing that he won’t see that mysterious smile ever again. He decides make the most of his rapidly deteriorating home while he still has it, until everything comes crashing down at his feet.

***

               That moment comes sooner than he thinks. Blackwatch missions fail more often than not nowadays, and Reyes suspects that’s not an accident. The people they lose are close friends, committed to their cause, and Jesse watches the other agents at the funerals, notes the lack of sympathy in some of their faces.

               Genji has already left, the destruction of his family’s empire the last straw. He’s done being used as a living weapon, and Jesse can’t blame him. The agents, barring Reyes and some few others, don’t even react to his departure. It’s as if the Shimada was never there in the first place.

               It’s time to go. This isn’t his home anymore.

               Gabriel isn’t angry, and Jesse chides himself for thinking he would be. If anything, he knows McCree is seizing opportunity by the balls and high-tailing it out of there before everything manages to blow itself up.

               Reyes presents him with a lump of fabric, which he unfolds to reveal a serape, not unlike the one he wears at present, but with vibrant reds and yellows that remind him of the days out on the road where the sand almost looked like it was burning. He cries profusely when Gabriel pats him on the back and slings an arm over him to send him off.

               Jesse McCree disappears into the wind, the sea shimmering like angels’ teardrops behind him.

***

               He catches word of the explosion two days after it takes place. The names “Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes” on the list of casualties hit him especially hard. He left and they died. Perhaps he sows the seeds of death wherever he goes.

               Jesse becomes a wanderer, travelling by whatever method he can across countries and oceans. The world slowly falls further and further into chaos, with no model system for them to follow. Omnics are still seen as unequal, and he finds himself breaking up rings of traders that deal in the poor souls reprogrammed to fulfill sexual desires. He can’t stand the sight of those depraved beings taking pleasure out of someone with no free will, so he puts an end to their lives and frees their prisoners.

               Pinpoint accuracy. Like always.

               They don’t like people like him. The world tends to frown upon people taking the law into their own hands, but he’s had enough of the UN’s shackles. Jesse McCree decides what Jesse McCree does, and he takes orders from nobody anymore.

               The run-ins with Talon are bittersweet, especially after he pulls one of their masks off to reveal someone he had passed in Overwatch’s halls during his frequent trips through their halls. It’s almost like a long-faded memory that resurfaces with every familiar life he takes, every soul stolen by his mother’s old gun.

               Before long, his bounty is reinstated. They’ve finally connected his face to the scrawny little teenager who had barely learned to shoot all those years ago. He doesn’t pay much attention to what they’ve put on his head presently. There’s no point to it, really.

               All it does is get him bad attention. People want the help of the infamous Jesse McCree, the man who can take down anyone he wants with a single pull of the trigger and some help from his stolen eyes. He turns them down.

               It’d mean taking orders from someone he doesn’t know. They’d try to give him a home. But he doesn’t want another one. Overwatch was his final home. And that’s all gone now, so he chooses to drift.

               Alcohol has always been his vice of choice, allowing him to forget the people he’s watched lose everything right in front of him. It’s gotten him into bad situations before, and it could possibly kill him, but who is he to deny fate? He’s only human.

               He occasionally finds solace in the company of others, his practiced words and easy smile introducing him to a whole array of new things. He doesn’t care much about the people he beds, focusing on their enjoyment and his own more than where they come from.

               He wonders if that’s what true freedom feels like.

               The incident on the train is particularly brutal, and even if they’ll blame him for it the moment the train pulls into the station, Jesse takes solace in the knowledge that someone is taking matters into their own hands. Might as well be him.

               If they call him an evil son of a bitch when he blows into places on the currents of the wind, so be it. If they curse his name when he turns down jobs that are against his moral compass, so be it. He’s not good, not bad. He’s just Jesse McCree.

               Occasionally, his mechanical arm breaks down, and he has to spend longer than he’d like in towns getting it fixed, as he’s no engineer. The only thing he knows through and through is his own revolver, and that’s saved his life on more than one occasion, just as Benson had guaranteed it would.

               Yet another soul connected to him that can no longer watch the leaves change in the fall, hear the laughter of children, feel the touch of a loved one. Perhaps he never was meant to have a home, if turmoil is all he brings to the table.

               There’s a period, about 2 years into his stint as a bounty hunter, that Jesse falls into a slump. He stops seeing the point of it all, wonders where he went wrong and why things turn out the way they do. Except this time, he doesn’t have anyone to pat him on the back or ruffle his hair, to tell him “Jesse, it’ll be alright.” Because they’re all less than alright. They’re six feet under last time he checked.

               He guesses that it’s how all that positivity repaid them. Fate is terrible at bartering.

               He leans against a leaky sink in some run down shack he’s managed to hole up in for the night, and looks at himself in the cracked mirror. The place reminds him of a home he once had, one he can’t quite place his finger on. Images of worn walls sinking into the ground, of a woman saying his name, the one he hasn’t heard since his mother took her final breath, invade his mind’s eye.

               It’s curious. He wonders if enough of the whiskey bottle on his bedside table will provide him with the key to visit that magical place. If it will allow him to go home. The alcohol calls to him, as if he’s a young blonde girl and the neck of the bottle has a little note on which is written “Drink me.”

               His hand closes around the enticing glass before he freezes.

               He can’t. Not yet. He’s got unfinished business.

               With whom? He’s not quite sure. But there’s something out there, waiting for Jesse McCree. The faces of the people who gave him his home and his hope flash before him. Ana’s quaint smile, warped by the passing of time, the feeling of Gabriel’s hand on his back when he had lost his arm. The knowledge that Genji might still be out there searching for himself even picks him back up.

               If they all tapped out of the race early, then he’ll carry their legacies with him until the day fate takes him home as well.

               He shoots with an impossible purpose, now. The souls imbibed in each bullet that fires out of his revolver swirl around him like a vortex, but they have faces now. Familiar faces, familiar voices of those he lost. One in particular stays by his side constantly- she’s a kind woman, with a warm smile and loving eyes that shine just like his own.

               He’ll keep his ghosts from the Undertaker as long as they guide his hand and direct his sight. He’s found a new home, he tells himself. It’s in his heart, like that old saying. The family he was born into and the family he built live within him as he lives within them.

               And he carries on, flowing through life on the wings of fate.

               His old communicator lights up one night with a curious message, a plea to rejoin Overwatch. His hand hovers over the screen for a while before shutting it off. He has time to decide. These things take a while.

               Besides, he’s rather good at knowing the right time.


End file.
